XXCHRISTMAS EVE at TOPMAST TICKLE
Returning afoot from the bedside of Long John Wise at Run-by-Guess—and from many a bedside and wretched hearth by the way—the doctor and I strapped our packs aback and heartily set out from the Hudson’s Bay Company’s post at Bread-and-Water Bay in the dawn of the day before Christmas: being then three weeks gone from our harbour, and, thinking to reach it next day. We were to chance hospitality for the night; and this must be (they told us) at the cottage of a man of the name of Jonas Jutt, which is at Topmast Tickle. There was a lusty old wind scampering down the coast, with many a sportive whirl and whoop, flinging the snow about in vast delight—a big, rollicking winter’s wind, blowing straight out of the north, at the pitch of half a gale. With this abeam we made brave progress; but yet ’twas late at night when we floundered down the gully called Long-an’-Deep, where the drifts were overhead and each must rescue the other from sudden misfortune: a warm glimmer of light in Jonas Jutt’s kitchen window to guide and hearten us.
The doctor beat the door with his fist. “Open, open!” cried he, still furiously knocking. “Good Lord! will you never open?”
So gruff was the voice, so big and commanding—and so sudden was the outcry—and so late was the night and wild the wind and far away the little cottage—that the three little Jutts, who then (as it turned out) sat expectant at the kitchen fire, must all at once have huddled close; and I fancy that Sammy blinked no longer at the crack in the stove, but slipped from his chair and limped to his sister, whose hand he clutched.
“We’ll freeze, I tell you!” shouted the doctor. “Open the—— Ha! Thank you,” in a mollified way, as Skipper Jonas opened the door; and then, most engagingly: “May we come in?”
“An’ welcome, zur,” said the hearty Jonas, “whoever you be! ’Tis gettin’ t’ be a wild night.”
“Thank you. Yes—a wild night. Glad to catch sight of your light from the top of the hill. We’ll leave the racquets here. Straight ahead? Thank you. I see the glow of a fire.”
We entered.
“Hello!” cried the doctor, stopping short. “What’s this? Kids? Good! Three of them. Ha! How are you?”
The manner of asking the question was most indignant,not to say threatening; and a gasp and heavy frown accompanied it. By this I knew that the doctor was about to make sport for Martha and Jimmie and Sammy Jutt (as their names turned out to be): which often he did for children by pretending to be in a great rage; and invariably they found it delicious entertainment, for however fiercely he blustered, his eyes twinkled most merrily all the time, so that one was irresistibly moved to chuckle with delight at the sight of them, no matter how suddenly or how terribly he drew down his brows.
“I like kids,” said he, with a smack of the lips. “I eat ’em!”
Gurgles of delight escaped from the little Jutts—and each turned to the other: the eyes of all dancing.
“And how areyou?” the doctor demanded.
His fierce little glance was indubitably directed at little Sammy, as though, God save us! the lad had no right to be anythingbutwell, and ought to be, and should be, birched on the instant if he had the temerity to admit the smallest ache or pain from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. But Sammy looked frankly into the flashing eyes, grinned, chuckled audibly, and lisped that he was better.
“Better?” growled the doctor, searching Sammy’s white face and skinny body as though for evidence to the contrary. “I’ll attend toyou!”
Thereupon Skipper Jonas took us to the shed, where we laid off our packs and were brushed clean of snow; and by that time Matilda Jutt, the mother of Martha and Jimmie and Sammy, had spread the table with the best she had—little enough, God knows! being but bread and tea—and was smiling beyond. Presently there was nothing left of the bread and tea; and then we drew up to the fire, where the little Jutts still sat, regarding us with great interest. And I observed that Martha Jutt held a letter in her hand: whereupon I divined precisely what our arrival had interrupted, for I was Labrador born, and knew well enough what went on in the kitchens of our land of a Christmas Eve.
“And now, my girl,” said the doctor, “what’s what?”
By this extraordinary question—delivered, as it was, in a manner that called imperatively for an answer—Martha Jutt was quite nonplussed: as the doctor had intended she should be.
“What’s what?” repeated the doctor.
Quite startled, Martha lifted the letter from her lap. “He’s not comin’, zur,” she gasped, for lack of something better.
“You’re disappointed, I see,” said the doctor. “So he’s not coming?”
“No, zur—not this year.”
“That’s too bad. But you mustn’t mind it, you know—not for an instant. What’s the matter with him?”
“He’ve broke his leg, zur.”
“What!” cried the doctor, restored of a sudden to his natural manner. “Poor fellow! How did he come to do that?”
“Catchin’ one o’ they wild deer, zur.”
“Catching a deer!” the doctor exclaimed. “A most extraordinary thing. He was a fool to try it. How long ago?”
“Sure, it can’t be more than half an hour; for he’ve——”
The doctor jumped up. “Where is he?” he demanded, with professional eagerness. “It can’t be far. Davy, I must get to him at once. I must attend to that leg. Where is he?”
“Narth Pole, zur,” whispered Sammy.
“Oh-h-h!” cried the doctor; and he sat down again, and pursed his lips, and winked at Sammy in a way most peculiar. “Isee!”
“Ay, zur,” Jimmie rattled, eagerly. “We’re fair disappointed that he’s not——”
“Ha!” the doctor interrupted. “I see. Hum! Well, now!” And having thus incoherently exclaimed for a little, the light in his eyes growing merrier all the time, he most unaccountably workedhimself into a great rage: whereby I knew that the little Jutts were in some way to be mightily amused. “The lazy rascal!” he shouted, jumping out of his chair, and beginning to stamp the room, frowning terribly. “The fat, idle, blundering dunderhead! Did they send you that message? Did they, now? Tell me, did they? Give me that letter!” He snatched the letter from Martha’s lap. “Sammy,” he demanded, “where did this letter come from?”
“Narth Pole, zur!”
Jonas Jutt blushed—and Matilda threw her apron over her head to hide her confusion.
“Andhowdid it come?”
“Out o’ the stove, zur.”
The doctor opened the letter, and paused to slap it angrily, from time to time, as he read it.
North pollDeer Marthafew lines is to let you know on acounts of havin broke me leg cotchin the deer Im sory im in a stat of helth not bein able so as to be out in hevy wether. hopin you is all wel as it leves meyrs respectfulSandy ClawsFish was poor and it would not be much this yere anyways. tel little Sammy
North poll
Deer Martha
few lines is to let you know on acounts of havin broke me leg cotchin the deer Im sory im in a stat of helth not bein able so as to be out in hevy wether. hopin you is all wel as it leves me
yrs respectful
Sandy Claws
Fish was poor and it would not be much this yere anyways. tel little Sammy
“Ha!” shouted the doctor, as he crushed the letter to a little ball and flung it under the table.“Ha! That’s the kind of thing that happens when one’s away from home. There you have it! Discipline gone to the dogs. System gone to the dogs. Everything gone to the dogs. Now, what do you think of that?”
He scowled, and gritted his teeth, and puffed, and said “Ha!” in a fashion so threatening that one must needs have fled the room had there not been a curiously reassuring twinkle in his eyes.
“What do you think of that?” he repeated, fiercely, at last. “A countermanded order! I’ll attend tohim!” he burst out. “I’ll fix that fellow! The lazy dunderhead, I’ll soon fix him! Give me pen and ink. Where’s the paper? Never mind. I’ve some in my pack. One moment, and I’ll——”
He rushed to the shed, to the great surprise and alarm of the little Jutts, and loudly called back for a candle, which Skipper Jonas carried to him; and when he had been gone a long time, he returned with a letter in his hand, still ejaculating in a great rage.
“See that?” said he to the three little Jutts. “Well,that’sfor Santa Claus’s clerk. That’ll fixhim. That’ll blister the stupid fellow.”
“Please, zur!” whispered Martha Jutt.
“Well?” snapped the doctor, stopping short in a rush to the stove.
“Please, zur,” said Martha, taking courage, and laying a timid hand on his arm. “Sure, I don’t know what ’tis all about. I don’t know what blunder he’ve made. But I’m thinkin’, zur, you’ll be sorry if you acts in haste. ’Tis wise t’ count a hundred. Don’t be too hard on un, zur. ’Tis like the blunder may be mended. ’Tis like he’ll do better next time. Don’t be hard——”
“Hardon him?” the doctor interrupted. “Hard onhim! Hard on that——”
“Ay, zur,” she pleaded, looking fearlessly up. “Won’t you count a hundred?”
“Count it,” said he, grimly.
Martha counted. I observed that the numbers fell slower—and yet more slowly—from her lips, until (and she was keenly on the watch) a gentler look overspread the doctor’s face; and then she rattled them off, as though she feared he might change his mind once more.
“——an’ a hundred!” she concluded, breathless.
“Well,” the doctor drawled, rubbing his nose, “I’ll modify it,” whereupon Martha smiled, “just to ’bligeyou,” whereupon she blushed.
So he scratched a deal of the letter out; then he sealed it, strode to the stove, opened the door, flung the letter into the flames, slammed the door, andturned with a wondrously sweet smile to the amazed little Jutts.
“There!” he sighed. “I think that will do the trick. We’ll soon know, at any rate.”
We waited, all very still, all with eyes wide open, all gazing fixedly at the door of the stove. Then, all at once—and in the very deepest of the silence—the doctor uttered a startling “Ha!” leaped from his chair with such violence that he overturned it, awkwardly upset Jimmie Jutt’s stool and sent the lad tumbling head over heels (for which he did not stop to apologize); and there was great confusion: in the midst of which the doctor jerked the stove door open, thrust in his arm, and snatched a blazing letter straight from the flames—all before Jimmie and Martha and Sammy Jutt had time to recover from the daze into which the sudden uproar had thrown them.
“There!” cried the doctor, when he had managed to extinguish the blaze. “We’ll just see what’s in this. Better news, I’ll warrant.”
You may be sure that the little Jutts were blinking amazement. There could be no doubt about the authenticity ofthatcommunication. And the doctor seemed to know it: for he calmly tore the envelope open, glanced the contents over, and turned to Martha, the broadest of grins wrinkling his face.
“Martha Jutt,” said he, “will youpleasebe good enough to readthat.”
And Martha read:
North Pole, Dec. 24, 10:18p.m.To Captain Blizzard,Jonas Jutt’s Cottage, Topmast Tickle,Labrador Coast.Respected Sir:Regret erroneous report. Mistake of a clerk in the Bureau of Information. Santa Claus got away at 9:36. Wind blowing due south, strong and fresh.Snow, Chief Clerk.
North Pole, Dec. 24, 10:18p.m.
To Captain Blizzard,
Jonas Jutt’s Cottage, Topmast Tickle,
Labrador Coast.
Respected Sir:
Regret erroneous report. Mistake of a clerk in the Bureau of Information. Santa Claus got away at 9:36. Wind blowing due south, strong and fresh.
Snow, Chief Clerk.
Then there was a great outburst of glee. It was the doctor who raised the first cheer. Three times three and a tiger! And what a tiger it was! What with the treble of Sammy, which was of the thinnest description, and the treble of Martha, which was full and sure, and the treble of Jimmie, which dangerously bordered on a cracked bass, and what with Matilda’s cackle and Skipper Jonas’s croak and my own hoorays and the doctor’s gutteral uproar (which might have been mistaken for a very double bass)—what with all this, as you may be sure, the shout of the wind was nowhere. Then we joined hands—it was the doctor who began it by catching Martha and Matilda—and danced the table round, shaking our feet and tossing our arms, the glee ever more uproarious—danced until we were breathless, every one,save little Sammy, who was not asked to join the gambol, but sat still in his chair, and seemed to expect no invitation.
“Wind blowing due south, strong and fresh,” gasped Jimmie, when, at last, we sat down. “He’ll be down in a hurry, with they swift deer. My! but he’ll justwhizzin this gale!”
“But ’tis sad ’tis too late t’ get word to un,” said Martha, the smile gone from her face.
“Sad, is it?” cried the doctor. “Sad! What’s the word you want to send?”
“’Tis something for Sammy, zur.”
Sammy gave Martha a quick dig in the ribs. “‘N’ mama,” he lisped, reproachfully.
“Ay, zur; we’re wantin’ it bad. An’ does you think us could get word to un? For Sammy, zur?”
“‘N’ mama,” Sammy insisted.
“We can try, at any rate,” the doctor answered, doubtfully. “Maybe we can catch him on the way down. Where’s that pen? Here we are. Now!”
He scribbled rapidly, folded the letter in great haste, and dispatched it to Santa Claus’s clerk by the simple process of throwing it in the fire. As before, he went to his pack in the shed, taking the candle with him—the errand appeared to be really most trivial—and stayed so long that the little Jutts, who now loved him very much (as I could see), wishedthat the need would not arise again. But, all in good time, he returned, and sat to watch for the reply, intent as any of them; and, presently, he snatched the stove door open, creating great confusion in the act, as before; and before the little Jutts could recover from the sudden surprise, he held up a smoking letter. Then he read aloud:
“Try Hamilton Inlet. Touches there 10:48. Time of arrival at Topmast Tickle uncertain. No use waiting up.Snow, Clerk.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed the doctor. “That’s jolly! Touches Hamilton Inlet at 10:48.” He consulted his watch. “It’s now 10:43 and a half. We’ve just four and a half minutes. I’ll get a message off at once. Where’s that confounded pen? Ha! Here we are. Now—what is it you want for Sammy and mama?”
The three little Jutts were suddenly thrown into a fearful state of excitement. They tried to talk all at once; but not one of them could frame a coherent sentence. It was most distressful to see.
“The Exterminator!” Martha managed to jerk out, at last.
“Oh, ay!” cried Jimmie Jutt. “Quick, zur! Write un down. Pine’s Prompt Pain Exterminator. Warranted to cure. Please, zur, make haste.”
The doctor stared at Jimmie.
“Oh, zur,” groaned Martha, “don’t be starin’ like that! Write, zur! ’Twas all in the paper the prospector left last summer. Pine’s Prompt Pain Exterminator. Cures boils, rheumatism, pains in the back an’ chest, sore throat, an’ all they things, an’ warts on the hands by a simple application with brown paper. We wants it for the rheumatiz, zur. Oh, zur——”
“None genuine without the label,” Jimmie put in, in an excited rattle. “Money refunded if no cure. Get a bottle with the label.”
The doctor laughed—laughed aloud, and laughed again. “By Jove!” he roared, “you’ll get it. It’s odd, but—ha, ha!—by Jove, he has it in stock!”
The laughter and repeated assurance seemed vastly to encourage Jimmie and Martha—the doctor wrote like mad while he talked—but not little Sammy. All that he lisped, all that he shouted, all that he screamed, had gone unheeded. As though unable to put up with the neglect any longer, he limped over the floor to Martha, and tugged her sleeve, and pulled at Jimmie’s coat-tail, and jogged the doctor’s arm, until, at last, he attracted a measure of attention. Notwithstanding his mother’s protests—notwithstanding her giggles and waving hands—notwithstanding that she blushed as red as ink (until, as I perceived, her freckles were all lost to sight)—notwithstandingthat she threw her apron over her head and rushed headlong from the room, to the imminent danger of the door-posts—little Sammy insisted that his mother’s gift should be named in the letter of request.
“Quick!” cried the doctor. “What is it? We’ve but half a minute left.”
Sammy began to stutter.
“Make haste, b’y!” cried Jimmie.
“One—bottle—of—the—Magic—Egyptian—Beautifier,” said Sammy, quite distinctly for the first time in his life.
The doctor looked blank; but he doggedly nodded his head, nevertheless, and wrote it down; and off went the letter at precisely 10:47.45, as the doctor said.
Later—when the excitement had all subsided and we sat dreaming in the warmth and glow—the doctor took little Sammy in his lap, and told him he was a very good boy, and looked deep in his eyes, and stroked his hair, and, at last, very tenderly bared his knee. Sammy flinched at that; and he said “Ouch!” once, and screwed up his face, when the doctor—his gruffness all gone, his eyes gentle and sad, his hand as light as a mother’s—worked the joint, and felt the knee-cap and socket with the tips of his fingers.
“And is this the rheumatiz the Prompt Exterminator is to cure, Sammy?” he asked.
“Ith, zur.”
“Ah, isthatwhere it hurts you? Right on the point of the bone, there?”
“Ith, zur.”
“And was there no fall on the rock, at all? Oh, therewasa fall? And the bruise was just there—where it hurts so much? And it’s very hard to bear, isn’t it?”
Sammy shook his head.
“No? But it hurts a good deal, sometimes, does it not? That’s too bad. That’s very sad, indeed. But, perhaps—perhaps, Sammy—I can cure it for you, if you are brave. And are you brave? No? Oh, I think you are. And you’ll try to be, at any rate, won’t you? Of course! That’s a good boy.”
And so, with his sharp little knives, the doctor cured Sammy Jutt’s knee, while the lad lay white and still on the kitchen table. And ’twas not hard to do; but had not the doctor chanced that way, Sammy Jutt would have been a cripple all his life.
“Doctor, zur,” said Matilda Jutt, when the children were put to bed, with Martha to watch by Sammy, who was still very sick, “is you really got a bottle o’ Pine’s Prompt?”
The doctor laughed. “An empty bottle,” said he. “I picked it up at Poverty Cove. Thought it might come useful. I’ll put Sammy’s medicine in that. They’ll not know the difference. And you’ll treat the knee with it as I’ve told you. That’s all. We must turn in at once; for we must be gone before the children wake in the morning.”
“Oh, ay, zur; an’——” she began: but hesitated, much embarrassed.
“Well?” the doctor asked, with a smile.
“Would you mind puttin’ some queer lookin’ stuff in one o’ they bottles o’ yours?”
“Not in the least,” in surprise.
“An’ writin’ something on a bit o’ paper,” she went on, pulling at her apron, and looking down, “an’ gluin’ it t’ the bottle?”
“Not at all. But what shall I write?”
She flushed. “‘Magic Egyptian Beautifier,’ zur,” she answered; “for I’m thinkin’ ’twould please little Sammy t’ think that Sandy Claws left something—for me—too.”
If you think that the three little Jutts found nothing but bottles of medicine in their stockings, when they got down-stairs on Christmas morning, you are very much mistaken. Indeed, there was much more than that—a great deal more than that. I will nottell you what it was; for you might sniff, and say, “Huh! That’s little enough!” But therewasmore than medicine. No man—rich man, poor man, beggarman nor thief, doctor, lawyer nor merchant chief—ever yet left a Hudson’s Bay Company’s post, stared in the face by the chance of having to seek hospitality of a Christmas Eve—no right-feeling man, I say, ever yet left a Hudson’s Bay Company’s post, under such circumstances, without putting something more than medicine in his pack. I chance to know, at any rate, that upon this occasion Doctor Luke did not. And I know, too—you may be interested to learn it—that as we floundered through the deep snow, homeward bound, soon after dawn, the next day, he was glad enough that he hadn’t. No merry shouts came over the white miles from the cottage of Jonas Jutt, though I am sure that they rang there most heartily; but the doctor did not care: he shouted merrily enough for himself, for he was very happy. And that’s the wayyou’dfeel, too, if you spentyourdays hunting good deeds to do.
XXIDOWN NORTH
When, in my father’s house, that night, the Christmas revel was over—when, last of all, in noisy glee, we had cleared the broad kitchen floor for Sir Roger De Coverly, which we danced with the help of the maids’ two swains and Skipper Tommy Lovejoy and Jacky, who had come out from the Lodge for the occasion (all being done to the tune of “Money Musk,” mercilessly wrung from an ancient accordion by Timmie Lovejoy)—when, after that, we had all gathered before the great blaze in the best room, we told no tales, such as we had planned to tell, but soon fell to staring at the fire, each dreaming his own dreams.
It may be that my thoughts changed with the dying blaze—passing from merry fancies to gray visions, trooping out of the recent weeks, of cold and hunger and squalid death in the places from which we had returned.
“Davy!” said my sister.
I started.
“What in the world,” she asked, “is you thinkin’ so dolefully of?”
“I been thinkin’,” I answered, sighing, “o’ the folk down narth.”
“Of the man at Runner’s Woe?” the doctor asked.
“No, zur. He on’y done murder. ’Twas not o’ he. ’Twas o’ something sadder than that.”
“Then ’tis too sad to tell,” he said.
“No,” I insisted. “’Twould do well-fed folk good t’ hear it.”
“What was it?” my sister asked.
“I was thinkin’——”
Ah, but ’twastoo sad!
“O’ what?”
“O’ the child at Comfort Harbour, Bessie, that starved in his mother’s arms.”
Timmie Lovejoy threw more billets on the fire. They flamed and spluttered and filled the room with cheerful light.
“Davy,” said the doctor, “we can never cure the wretchedness of this coast.”
“No, zur?”
“But we can try to mitigate it.”
“We’ll try,” said I. “You an’ me.”
“You and I.”
“And I,” my sister said.
Lying between the sturdy little twins, that night—where by right of caste I lay, for it was the warmest place in the bed—I abandoned, once and for all, my old hope of sailing a schooner, with the decks awash.
“Timmie!” I whispered.
He was sound asleep. I gave him an impatient nudge in the ribs.
“Ay, Davy?” he asked.
“You may have my hundred-tonner,” said I.
“What hundred-tonner?”
“The big fore-an’-after, Timmie, I’m t’ have when I’m growed. You may skipper she. You’ll not wreck her, Timmie, will you?”
He was asleep.
“Hut!” I thought, angrily. “I’ll have Jacky skipper that craft, if Timmie don’t look out.”
At any rate, she was not to be for me.
XXIIThe WAY From HEART’S DELIGHT
It chanced in the spring of that year that my sister and the doctor and I came unfortuitously into a situation of grave peril: wherein (as you shall know) the doctor was precipitate in declaring a sentiment, which, it may be, he should still have kept close within his heart, withholding it until a happier day. But for this there is some excuse: for not one of us hoped ever again to behold the rocks and placid water of our harbour, to continue the day’s work to the timely close of the day, to sit in quiet places, to dream a fruitful future, to aspire untroubled in security and ease: and surely a man, whatever his disposition and strength of mind, being all at once thus confronted, may without blame do that which, as a reward for noble endeavour, he had hoped in all honour to do in some far-off time.
Being bound across the bay from Heart’s Delight of an ominously dull afternoon—this on a straight-away course over the ice which still clung to thecoast rocks—we were caught in a change of wind and swept to sea with the floe: a rising wind, blowing with unseasonable snow from the northwest, which was presently black as night. Far off shore, the pack was broken in pieces by the sea, scattered broadcast by the gale; so that by the time of deep night—while the snow still whipped past in clouds that stung and stifled us—our pan rode breaking water: which hissed and flashed on every hand, the while ravenously eating at our narrow raft of ice. Death waited at our feet.... We stood with our backs to the wind, my sister and I cowering, numb and silent, in the lee of the doctor.... Through the long night ’twas he that sheltered us.... By and by he drew my sister close. She sank against his breast, and trembled, and snuggled closer, and lay very still in his arms.... I heard his voice: but was careless of the words, which the wind swept overhead—far into the writhing night beyond.
“No, zur,” my sister answered. “I’m not afraid—with you.”
A long time after that, when the first light of dawn was abroad—sullen and cheerless—he spoke again.
“Zur?” my sister asked, trembling.
He whispered in her ear.
“Ay, zur,” she answered.
Then he kissed her lips....
Late in the day the snow-clouds passed. Ice and black water mercilessly encompassed us to the round horizon of gray sky. There was no hope anywhere to be descried.... In the dead of night a change of wind herded the scattered fragments of the pack. The ice closed in upon us—great pans, crashing together: threatening to crush our frailer one.... We were driven in a new direction.... Far off to leeward—somewhere deep in the black night ahead—the floe struck the coast. We heard the evil commotion of raftering ice. It swept towards us. Our pan stopped dead with a jolt. The pack behind came rushing upon us. We were tilted out of the water—lifted clear of it all—dropped headlong with the wreck of the pan....
I crawled out of a shallow pool of water. “Bessie!” I screamed. “Oh, Bessie, where is you?”
The noise of the pack passed into distance—dwindling to deepest silence.
“Davy,” my sister called, “is you hurt?”
“Where is you, Bessie?”
“Here, dear,” she answered, softly. “The doctor has me safe.”
Guided by her sweet voice, I crept to them; andthen we sat close together, silent all in the silent night, waiting for the dawn....
We traversed a mile or more of rugged, blinding ice—the sky blue in every part, the sun shining warm, the wind blowing light and balmy from the south. What with the heat, the glare, the uneven, treacherous path—with many a pitfall to engulf us—’twas a toilsome way we travelled. The coast lay white and forsaken beyond—desolate, inhospitable, unfamiliar: an unkindly refuge for such castaways as we. But we came gratefully to the rocks, at last, and fell exhausted in the snow, there to die, as we thought, of hunger and sheer weariness. And presently the doctor rose, and, bidding us lie where we were, set out to discover our whereabouts, that he might by chance yet succour us: which seemed to me a hopeless venture, for the man was then near snow-blind, as I knew....
Meantime, at our harbour, where the world went very well, the eye of Skipper Tommy Lovejoy chanced in aimless roving to alight upon the letter from Wolf Cove, still securely fastened to the wall, ever visible warning to that happy household against the wiles o’ women. I fancy that (the twins being gone to Trader’s Cove to enquire for us) the mildblue eye wickedly twinkled—that it found the tender missive for the moment irresistible in fascination—that the old man approached, stepping in awe, and gazed with gnawing curiosity at the pale, sprawling superscription, his very name—that he touched the envelope with his thick forefinger, just to make sure that ’twas tight in its place, beyond all peradventure of catastrophe—that, merely to provide against its defilement by dust, he removed and fondled it—that then he wondered concerning its contents, until, despite his crying qualms of conscience (the twins being gone to Trader’s Cove and Davy Roth off to Heart’s Delight to help the doctor heal the young son of Agatha Rundle), this fateful dreaming altogether got the better of him. At any rate, off he hied through the wind and snow to Tom Tot’s cottage: where, as fortune had it, Tom Tot was mending a caplin seine.
“Tom Tot,” said he, quite shamelessly, “I’m fair achin’ t’ know what’s in this letter.”
The harbour was cognizant of Skipper Tommy’s state and standing temptation: much concerned, as well, as to the outcome.
“Skipper Tommy,” Tom Tot asked, and that most properly, “is you got leave o’ the boss’s son?”
“Davy?”
“Ay, Davy.”
“I is not,” the skipper admitted, with becoming candour.
“Is you spoke t’ the twins?”
“I is not.”
“Then,” Tom Tot concluded, “shame on you!”
Skipper Tommy tweaked his nose. “Tom Tot,” said he, “you got a wonderful power for readin’. Don’t you go tellin’meyou hasn’t! Iknowsyou has.”
“Well,” Tom Tot admitted, “as you’re makin’ a p’int of it, I’m fair on print, but poor on writin’.”
“Tom Tot,” Skipper Tommy went on, with a wave (I fancy) of uttermost admiration, “I’ll stand by it that you is as good at writin’ as print. That I will,” he added, recklessly, “agin the world.”
Tom Tot yielded somewhat to this blandishment. He took the proffered letter. “I isn’t denyin’, Skipper Tommy,” he said, “that I’m able t’ make out your name on this here letter.”
“Ecod!” cried Skipper Tommy, throwing up his hands. “I knowed it!”
“I isn’t denyin’,” Tom Tot repeated, gravely, “that I’mfairon writin’. Fair, mark you! No more.”
“Ay,” said the skipper, “but I’m wantin’ you t’ know that this here letter was writ by a woman with a wonderful sight o’ l’arnin’. I’ll warrant you canreadit. O’ course,” in a large, conclusive way, “an youcan’t——”
“Skipper Tommy,” Tom interrupted, quickly, “I isn’tsayin’I can’t.”
“Isn’t you?” innocently. “Why, Tom Tot, I was thinkin’——”
“No, zur!” Tom answered with heat. “I isn’t!”
“Well, you wouldn’t——”
“I will!”
“So be,” said the skipper, with a sigh of infinite satisfaction. “I’m thinkin’, somehow,” he added, his sweet faith now beautifully radiant (I am sure), as was his way, “that the Lard is mixed up in this letter. He’s mixed up in ’most all that goes on, an’ I’d not be s’prised if He had a finger in this. ‘Now,’ says the Lard, ‘Skipper Tommy,’ says He, ‘the mail-boat went t’ the trouble o’ leavin’ you a letter,’ says He, ‘an’——’”
“Leave the Lard out o’ this,” Tom Tot broke in.
“Sure, an’ why?” Skipper Tom mildly asked.
“You’ve no call t’ drag Un in here,” was the sour reply. “You leave Un alone. You’re gettin’ too wonderful free an’ easy with the Lard God A’mighty, Thomas Lovejoy. He’ll be strikin’ you dead in your tracks an you don’t look out.”
“Tom Tot,” the skipper began, “the Lard an’ me is wonderful——”
“Leave the Lard alone,” Tom Tot snapped. “Come, now! Is you wantin’ this here letter read?”
“I is.”
Without more ado, Tom Tot opened the letter from Wolf Cove. I have no doubt that sensitive blood flushed the bronzed, wrinkled cheeks of Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, and that, in a burst of grinning modesty, he tweaked his nose with small regard for that sorely tried and patient member. And I am informed that, while my old friend thus waited in ecstasy, Tom Tot puzzled over the letter, for a time, to make sure that his learning would not be discomfited in the presence of Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, before whom he had boasted. Then——
“Skipper Tommy,” he implored, in agony, “how long—oh, how long—is you had this letter?”
Skipper Tommy stared.
“How long, oh, how long?” Tom Tot repeated.
“What’s gone amiss?” Skipper Tommy entreated, touching Tom Tot’s shaking hand. “It come in the fall o’ the year, Tom, lad. But what’s gone amiss along o’ you?”
“She’ve been waitin’—since then? Oh, a wretched father, I!”
“Tom, lad, tell me what ’tis all about.”
“’Tis from she—Mary! ’Tis from my lass,” TomTot cried. “’Twas writ by that doctor-woman—an’ sent t’ you, Skipper Tommy—t’ tell me—t’ break it easy—that she’d run off from Wayfarer’s Tickle—because o’ the sin she’d found there. I misdoubt—oh, I misdoubt—that she’ve been afeared I’d—that I’d mistook her, poor wee thing—an’ turn her off. I call the Lard God A’mighty t’ witness,” he cried, passionately, “that I’d take her home, whatever come t’ pass! I calls God t’ witness that I loves my lass! She’ve done no wrong,” he continued. “She’ve but run away from the sin t’ Wayfarer’s Tickle. She’ve taken shelter t’ Wolf Cove—because—she’ve been afeared that—I’d mistook—an’ cast her off!”
“An’ she’s waitin’ there for you?”
“Ay—for me—t’ bring her home.”
“For her father t’ come?”
“Her father.”
There was a moment of silence. “Tom Tot,” Skipper Tommy declared, fetching his thigh a resounding slap, “that letter’s been tacked t’ my wall the winter long. Is you hearin’ me, Tom Tot? It’s been lyin’ idle agin my wall. While she’ve been waitin’, Tom! While she’ve been waitin’!”
“Oh, ay!”
“I’m fair glad you’re hearin’ me,” said the skipper. “For I calls you t’ witness this: that when I cotchesthem twins o’ mine I’ll thwack un till they’re red, Tom Tot—till they’re red and blistered below decks. An’ when I cotches that young Davy Roth—when I cotches un alone, ’ithout the doctor—I’ll give un double watches.”
“We’ll get underway for Wolf Cove, Skipper Tommy,” said Tom Tot, “when the weather lightens. An’ we’ll fetch that lass o’ mine,” he added, softly, “home.”
“That we will, Tom Tot,” said Skipper Tommy Lovejoy.
And ’twas thus it came about that we were rescued: for, being old and wise, they chose to foot it to Wolf Cove—over the ’longshore hills—fearing to chance the punt at sea, because of the shifting ice. Midway between our harbour and Wolf Cove, they found the doctor sitting blind in the snow, but still lustily entreating the surrounding desolation for help—raising a shout at intervals, in the manner of a faithful fog-horn. Searching in haste and great distress, they soon came upon my sister and me, exhausted, to be sure, and that most pitiably, but not beyond the point of being heartily glad of their arrival. Then they made a tiny fire with birch rind and billets from Tom Tot’s pack—and the fire crackled and blazed in a fashion the most heartening—and the smutty tin kettle bubbled as busily as inthe most immaculate of kitchens: and presently the tea and hard-bread were doing such service as rarely, indeed, save in our land, it is their good fortune to achieve. And having been refreshed and roundly scolded, we were led to the cove beyond, where we lay the night at the cottage of Tiltworthy Cutch: whence, in the morning, being by that time sufficiently restored, we set out for our harbour, under the guidance of Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, whose continued separation from the woman at Wolf Cove I made sure of by commanding his presence with us.
“You may beat me, Skipper Tommy,” said I, “when you gets me home, an’ I wish you joy of it. But home you goes!”
“But, Davy, lad,” he protested, “there’s that poor Tom Tot goin’ on alone——”
“Home you goes!”
“An’ there’s that kind-hearted doctor-woman. Sure, now, Davy,” he began, sweetly, “I’d like t’ tell she——”
“That’s just,” said I, “what I’m afeared of.”
Home the skipper came; and when the twins and I subsequently presented ourselves for chastisement, with solemn ceremony, gravely removing whatever was deemed in our harbour superfluous under the circumstances, he was so affected by the spectacle that(though I wish I might write it differently) he declared himself of opinion, fixed and unprejudiced, that of all the works of the Lord, which were many and infinitely blessed, none so favoured the gracious world as the three contrite urchins there present: and in this ecstasy of tenderness (to our shame) quite forgot the object of our appearance.
When Tom Tot brought Mary home from Wolf Cove, my sister and the doctor and I went that night by my sister’s wish to distinguish the welcome, so that, in all our harbour, there might be no quibble or continuing suspicion; and we found the maid cutting her father’s hair in the kitchen (for she was a clever hand with the scissors and comb), as though nothing had occurred—Skipper Tommy Lovejoy meanwhile with spirit engaging the old man in a discussion of the unfailing topic; this being the attitude of the Lord God Almighty towards the wretched sons of men, whether feeling or not.
In the confusion of our entrance Mary whispered in my ear. “Davy lad,” she said, with an air of mystery, “I got home.”
“I’m glad, Mary,” I answered, “that you got home.”
“An’, hist!” said she, “I got something t’ tell you,” said she, her eyes flashing, “along about hell.”
“Is you?” I asked, in fear, wishing she had not.
She nodded.
“Is yougott’ tell me, Mary?”
“Davy,” she whispered, pursing her lips, in the pause regarding me with a glance so significant of darkest mystery that against my very will I itched to share the fearful secret, “I got t’.”
“Oh, why?” I still protested.
“I been there!” said she.
’Twas quite enough to entice me beyond my power: after that, I kept watch, all in a shiver of dread, for some signal; and when she had swept her father’s shorn hair from the floor, and when my sister had gone with Tom Tot’s wife to put the swarm of little Tots to bed, and when Tom Tot had entered upon a minute description of the sin at Wayfarer’s Tickle, from which his daughter, fearing sudden death and damnation, had fled, Mary beckoned me to follow: which I did. Without, in the breathless, moonlit night, I found her waiting in a shadow; and she caught me by the wrist, clutching it cruelly, and led me to the deeper shadow and seclusion of a great rock, rising from the path to the flake. ’Twas very still and awesome, there in the dark of that black rock, with the light of the moon lying ghostly white on all the barren world, and the long, low howl of some forsaken dog from time to time disturbing the solemn silence.
I was afraid.
“Davy, lad,” she whispered, bending close, so that she could look into my eyes, which wavered, “is you listenin’?”
“Ay,” I answered, breathless.
Her voice was then triumphant. “I been t’ hell,” said she, “an’ back!”
“What’s it like, Mary?”
She shuddered.
“What’s it like,” I pleaded, lusting for the unholy knowledge, “in hell?”
For a moment she stared at the moonlit hills. Her grasp on my wrist relaxed. I saw that her lips were working.
“What’s it like,” I urged, “in hell?” for I devoutly wished to have the disclosure over with.
“’Tis hell,” she answered, low, “at Wayfarer’s Tickle. The gate t’ hell! Rum an’ love, Davy, dear,” she added, laying a fond hand upon my head, “leads t’ hell.”
“Not love!” I cried, in sudden fear: for I had thought of the driving snow, of my dear sister lying in the doctor’s arms, of his kiss upon her lips. “Oh, love leads t’ heaven!”
“T’ hell,” said she.
“No, no!”
“T’ hell.”
I suffered much in the silence—while, together, Mary and I stared at the silent world, lying asleep in the pale light.
“’Twas rum,” she resumed, “that sent the crew o’ theRight an’ Tightt’ hell. An’ ’twas a merry time they had at the gate. Ay, a merry time, with Jagger fillin’ the cups an’ chalkin’ it down agin the fish! But they went t’ hell.They went t’ hell! She was lost with all hands in the gale o’ that week—lost on the Devil’s Fingers—an’ all hands drunk! An’ Jack Ruddy o’ Helpful Harbour,” she muttered, “went down along o’ she. He was a bonnie lad,” she added, tenderly, “an’ he kissed me by stealth in the kitchen.” Very sorrowfully she dreamed of that boisterous kiss. “But,” she concluded, “’twas love that put Eliza Hare in th’ etarnal fires.”
“Not love!” I complained.
“Davy,” she said, not deigning to answer me, “Davy,” she repeated, her voice again rising splendidly triumphant, “I isn’t goin’ t’ hell! For I’ve looked in an’ got away. The Lard’ll never send me, now. Never!”
“I’m glad, Mary.”
“I’m not a goat,” she boasted. “’Twas all a mistake. I’m a sheep. That’s what I is!”
“I’m wonderful glad.”
“But you, Davy,” she warned, putting an armabout my waist, in sincere affection, “you better look out.”
“I isn’t afeared.”
“You better look out!”
“Oh, Mary,” I faltered, “I—I—isn’tmuchafeared.”
“You better look out!”
“Leave us go home!” I begged.
“The Lard’ll ship you there an you don’t look out. He’ve no mercy on little lads.”
“Oh, leave us go home!”
“He’ll be cotchin’ you!”
I could bear it no longer: nor wished to know any more about hell. I took her hand, and dragged her from the black shadow of the rock: crying out that we must now go home. Then we went back to Tom Tot’s cheerful kitchen; and there I no longer feared hell, but could not forget, try as I would, what Mary Tot had told me about love.
Skipper Tommy Lovejoy was preaching what the doctor called in his genial way “The Gospel According to Tommy.”
“Sure, now, Tom Tot,” said he, “the Lard is a Skipper o’ wonderful civil disposition. ‘Skipper Tommy,’ says He t’ me, ‘an you only does the best——’”
“You’re too free with the name o’ the Lard.”
Skipper Tommy looked up in unfeigned surprise. “Oh, no, Tom,” said he, mildly, “I isn’t. The Lard an’ me is——-”
“You’re too free,” Tom Tot persisted. “Leave Un be or you’ll rue it.”
“Oh, no, Tom,” said the skipper. “The Lard an’ me gets along wonderful well together. We’rewonderfulgood friends. I isn’t scared o’He!”
As we walked home, that night, the doctor told my sister and me that, whatever the greater world might think of the sin at Wayfarer’s Tickle, whether innocuous or virulent, Jagger was beyond cavil flagrantly corrupting our poor folk, who were simple-hearted and easy to persuade: that he was, indeed, a nuisance which must be abated, come what would.